


Pretty Thing, I've Got You

by SugarFey



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2019-10-24 11:38:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17703617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/pseuds/SugarFey
Summary: Seattle, 1993.They launch into their final chorus, the mosh pit roaring approval. Camina flashes Naomi a feral grin, stomping the stage in her heavy combat boots. In times like this, Naomi feels invincible.Naomi is the lead singer of an up and coming grunge band, The Belter Sisters. Camina Drummer plays lead guitar. They've been best friends since high school. They might be hitting the big time.That is, if they don't manage to completely fuck things up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of both the international release of Season Three and Femslash February 2019, I give you the Drummer/Naomi band!AU I never knew I needed to write.
> 
> Thanks to Sneakyhufflepuff for the beta and Spacebarista and L for the discussion.

_Seattle, 1993_

 As long as she can remember, Naomi Nagata has loved swimming alone. As a kid she would swim in the creek behind her auntie’s house when the ache of her parents’ memory became too much, as a teenager she would hold her breath under water until she saw stars behind her eyes. In her twenties, older but perhaps no wiser, she fled to the pool of whatever fleabag hotel her old band was staying in during the nights when Marco’s yelling filled her head.

It’s been almost two years since she left the Rockhoppers and helped found the Belter Sisters, but any pool is still her refuge. The pool in this motel juts out from under an awning, lit by dim bulbs along the walls. Naomi takes a deep breath and sinks back beneath the surface.

The jeers of the drunk morons in the bar still echo in her ears. It hadn’t really been a bad gig, all things considered. The Belter Sisters are slowly graduating from hole-in-the-wall pubs to bigger bars and festivals thanks to a few write ups in the local zines. The crowd at the Hyperion Bar were enthusiastic enough, and it wasn’t until the second last song of their set that a group of guys started yelling sexist bullshit. It shouldn’t bother her at this stage, assholes like that are part of the background noise to an all-female band’s career. As Bobbie would say, bigger venues, bigger assholes. 

She closes her eyes when she comes up for air, letting the words wash off her with the water. 

When she opens her eyes and turns around to face the motel, a figure is crouching by the pool. Camina Drummer, lead guitarist of the Belter Sisters and her best friend since they were both in high school. 

Camina is still wearing her dark jeans and black t-shirt from the gig, but her feet are bare and she’s loosened her hair out of its customary braid. Her black eye make-up is immaculate, because Camina won’t be seen dead without it. She moves down from a crouch to a kneeling position, heedless of the puddles on the floor. “Hey. Thought I’d find you here.”

“Hey.” Naomi folds her arms across her chest. After the initial relief of diving beneath the water, her damp skin feels chilly in the night air. 

“Still thinking about those jerks?” Camina asks in her throaty voice. Naomi has become so used to that voice over the years, steadying her nerves, helping her with lyrics, yelling back at her when they disagree. Their arguments can be record-setting, but when shit hits the fan, Camina is always there, gruff and cranky as she may be. 

Naomi sighs heavily. “Trying not to.” 

Camina shrugs. “Hey, at least they weren’t racist this time. Fuckers.” She grins, showing her teeth, and Naomi can’t help smiling back. 

“Only one out of two for assholery.” 

“Five points out of ten, try harder next time.” 

“Come up with a better insult than ‘chicks can’t play guitars.’” 

_“Ugh.”_ Camina rolls her eyes. “I should’ve done an impromptu cover of ‘Thunderstruck.’” 

“And maybe smashed your guitar over their heads.” The mental picture makes Naomi laugh, and a weight lifts from her chest. 

“Nah, then I’d have to buy a new one, and we can’t afford that.” Camina dangles one long leg over the edge of the pool, letting her toe trail in the water. 

“Your jeans will get wet,” Naomi points out. 

Camina’s foot slows as she tilts her head to one side, looking at Naomi with that intense gaze that Naomi never knows what to do with. Like Camina could see beneath her skin, right down to her core. 

Camina pulls her leg up. “Think I’ll come in.” 

Holding Naomi’s eyes as she stands, Camina undoes the button of her jeans and unceremoniously shoves them down her legs. Her t-shirt follows, falling into a heap by the side of the pool. Her panties are black, of course, but her white sports bra is striking against her olive skin. Naomi wouldn’t put it past Camina to have changed her bra for deliberate effect. 

“It’s cold,” Naomi warns. 

Camina snorts. “I’m Canadian.” 

She slides into the water with feline grace, causing the faintest ripple on the surface. She swims out to Naomi with two powerful strokes, until she floats only inches away. Her gaze still burns.

“It’s not cold at all,” she says, and ducks beneath the water. When her shoulders come back up, her bra looks exactly the way white fabric tends to look when wet.

_Oh, fuck._

Naomi’s cheeks flame into a blush. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” 

Camina shrugs, smirking. “Maybe. Is it working?” 

Her breath quickens between her parted lips. “I think you know it is.”

They have been here before, when they were both unemployed and drowning their sorrows. Naomi had left the Rockhoppers and Camina had been kicked out of her own band for fighting with the manager one too many times. Just as it was in their outcast teenage years when they snuck out of school to smoke weed and practice guitar, they had nowhere to turn but each other. But the memories of Marco still loomed in her head, so Naomi hadn’t been ready for more than a few kisses in the parking lot, and Camina didn’t push. 

Now, the water between them fizzes with an electric charge, and Camina is so, so close. 

“You sure about this?” Naomi asks. 

Camina raises an eyebrow. “Are you?” 

Naomi closes the distance between their lips as an answer. 

Camina is a heady mix of cold, slick water and simmering heat. Her arms wrap around Naomi and Naomi does the same to her, running her fingers through Camina’s dark, wet hair. Camina arches her back and Naomi leans in to her body, trying to feel her burning warmth, until they lose footing on the slippery pool floor and break apart. 

“Wow,” Naomi gasps. 

“Yeah.” Camina actually looks stunned. Her eyes are black with lust and the knowledge that Naomi made Camina feel that way is dizzying. 

They should talk about this. They should go back inside the motel, crack open a beer or two and work out how the hell they feel about each other. There’s the band to consider. But damn it, Naomi doesn’t want to.

“What to do that again?” 

“Fuck, yes.” Camina reaches for her, and Naomi is lost, drunk on Camina’s mouth and hands and taste. 

They could be kissing for a few seconds, or minutes, even days. Time has lost all meaning. Naomi is vaguely aware of her back hitting the pool wall, of steadying her feet on the floor, and then Camina’s leg is pushing between her thighs and Camina’s teeth are trailing down her neck, sending volts of heat down through her body to her core, and it’s too much. 

“Camina,” Naomi gasps, “can we… I’m sorry. I have to stop.” 

Camina pulls back instantly, and Naomi can almost see her walls sliding back into place. “It’s fine. I’ll go.” 

Naomi’s heart jerks. Without thinking, she surges forward through the water to hold Camina back. “No, it’s not… I want to. I do. But can we take it slow?” 

Camina’s brow furrows, but she does not pull away. She holds Naomi’s eyes for a long moment, until something in her gaze seems to soften. “Sure. Slow as you want. But right now, I’m going.” 

“You don’t have to…”

Camina sighs, a little of her trademark swagger creeping back into her posture. “Naomi, we’ve been making out for a while and you’re hot as fuck. So, I need to get off. Now.”

“Oh.” Well. That’s something. Should she say something flirty? She should say something flirty.

“Have fun!” she calls out. 

_What?_

Camina laughs as she climbs out of the pool. The water trickles down over every curve of her body. She turns back to Naomi and tips two fingers to her head in a sarcastic salute. “Be thinking of you.”

 

* * *

  

The Belter Sister’s next gig is in a former paint factory turned underground bar that can politely be called ‘rough around the edges’ and, more accurately, ‘shithole.’ Their set is the third of the night, one before the headline act, so at least they have that recognition. 

Truth is, Naomi loves gigs like this. The combined heat and noise of the crowd crushing towards the stage, the sour stench of sweat and stale beer tinged with cigarette smoke, the way she strains her lungs to be heard, it all gives a raw note to their music that never feels as strong in quieter rooms. 

The drinks are flowing freely and the energy in the bar is so thick you could taste it on your tongue. Camina shreds chords on her guitar, Bobbie works up a thunderstorm with her drum kit. Julie’s backing vocals and her bass add depth to Naomi’s chorus. She’s in her battle armour; a red and black flannel shirt open almost to her waist, her tightest jeans that show off her ass and glitter across her eyes and tits. They launch into their final chorus, the mosh pit roaring approval. Camina flashes Naomi a feral grin, stomping the stage in her heavy combat boots. In times like this, Naomi feels invincible. 

After their set, things go to hell. 

Julie snags a sticky table by the corner and Naomi goes looking for chairs while Bobbie heads for the bathroom and Camina pushes her way towards the bar to claim their free drinks. Naomi is leaning her elbows on the table and dreaming of washing away her sore throat with a beer or two when she hears Camina’s voice yelling above the crowd. 

Julie blanches. “Shit, not again.” 

Sure enough, a scuffle is breaking out by the bar. Camina is shoving a huge, leather-jacket wearing guy in the chest, her loud voice audible even with the music and the patrons. 

“She’s not interested in you, asshole!” she shouts, pushing the guy again. 

“Crazy bitch!” The man tries to throw Camina off, but she keeps coming at him. 

“I saw you grope her.” Camina slaps his hand away. “Bet you feel real strong, hitting on a girl who doesn’t want you!” 

Naomi tries to push past other curious patrons, but her way is blocked. _Jesus Christ, Camina._  

“Great,” a strong Kiwi accent announces behind her, “guess I’ll have to sort out this mess.” 

Bobbie wades out into the heaving crowd, her jaw set with grim determination. Unlike Naomi or Camina, Bobbie is a head above many of the people in the bar, but she still has to force her way through the fray. 

Bobbie is about to reach them when the guy pulls his arm back and backhands Camina across the face. 

Time slows to a crawl. Naomi watches Camina stumble back as if in slow motion, her hand clapped over her mouth and nose. Bobbie shouts something and shoves the man out of the way, her face twisted with fury. Julie tugs on Naomi’s arm, yelling something about calling the cops, but all Naomi can do is stand rooted to the spot, numb with shock. 

Bobbie half drags, half carries Camina back through the crush of people, and Naomi can finally move. 

“Get her out of here!” Bobbie shouts, pushing Camina into Naomi’s arms. “Julie and I will take care of the gear.” 

Julies looks like she’s hesitant on that front, but Naomi ignores her and throws Camina’s arm over her shoulder. Camina’s nose and lips are bleeding, but she’s standing and swearing violently under her breath and that’s enough. Somehow Naomi finds it in her to pull Camina out of the bar and hail them a cab. 

“Asshole had it coming,” Camina mutters after Naomi gives the driver their motel address. 

“Yeah, I bet his knuckles really hurt,” Naomi snaps. “What the hell were you thinking?” 

The cab driver clears his throat and Camina glowers at him and Naomi for the rest of the mercifully short ride. She tries to storm off when they reach the motel, a five foot five maelstrom of fury, but Naomi grabs her arm and holds tight. 

“Don’t even think about it. You’re coming with me.” 

Camina’s glare could kill if Naomi wasn’t used to it by now. She marches Camina through the lobby, up the stairs and into her motel room, flicking on the weak overhead light and slamming the door shut. It’s only then that she lets loose.

“Do you have to do this all the fucking time?” 

Camina flops down heavily onto the bed, her arms crossed. “He was laying hands on that girl. You want me to stand by and do nothing?”

God, she can be so fucking infuriating sometimes. Naomi throws up her hands. “Of course not! I just…” She falters, finally allowing herself to focus on Camina’s bruised face. The bleeding seems to have stopped, leaving dark red trails across her nose and lips and teeth. “I hate seeing you get hurt.” 

Camina’s arms are still folded, but her shoulders hunch forward as if the edge has been taken off her rage. Her eyes drop to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she forces out through gritted teeth. “If I worried you, I mean. Not for pushing the guy.” 

Her mouth pulls into tight, grim line, and she looks so uncomfortable, so annoyed with herself at the words, that Naomi can’t help cracking up in a laugh. “Was that an actual apology?” she says, holding her hand to her chest in mock amazement. “Did that hurt your little black heart?” 

The corner of Camina’s lips might just be twitching into a smile. “It’s something new I’m trying.”

Naomi grins, the tension seeping out of the room. “Well, stay there and let me clean you up. You look like shit.”

This is far from the nicest motel Naomi has ever stayed in, but the tiny ensuite bathroom has a decent supply of cheap towels. Naomi soaks one under the tap before walking back towards Camina. 

Camina must have already tried to wipe away some of the blood with her hand, because the red smear under her nose has partially rubbed off. Right now Camina is redoing the bottom half of her braid, plaiting her raven black hair with guitar-nimble fingers. Naomi offers her the wet towel and she accepts it wordlessly, tying off her braid and wiping the rough cloth over her face. Naomi leaves her to it and searches through her duffel bag. 

After years spent repairing her own equipment, Naomi has accumulated a decent first aid kit. There’s nothing like slicing your hand open with a screwdriver while fixing an amplifier in the back of a van in the middle of nowhere to teach you the value of disinfectant. She locates a bottle of the stuff and some cotton balls in the side pocket of her duffel bag and brings them over to the bed. “This is going to sting a bit,” she warns. 

Camina shoots her an incredulous look, as if she’s offended by the mere suggestion that she wouldn’t bear the pain with one hundred percent stoicism. Naomi rolls her eyes at her while she soaks a cotton ball with the disinfectant. She holds the cotton ball against the cut on Camina’s lip and Camina flinches. 

“Ow, fuck.”

“That’s what you get for doubting me.” It’s meant to be quip, but Naomi can’t stop staring at the shape of Camina’s lips. It’s been nearly a week since they last kissed. Camina has been extremely patient, letting Naomi hold her hand under the dining hall table sometimes, exchanging hidden smiles as they set up the gear. Between rehearsals, gigs and sleeping off the late nights in their rooms or on the tour bus, they have barely been able to get any time alone together. Until now. 

Camina’s tongue flicks out to wet her lips. “You really were worried about me?” 

Naomi swallows hard, leaning closer. “Of course I was. I am. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” She reaches up to touch Camina’s unbruised cheek. “Are you in pain?” 

“No.” 

Camina’s mouth crashes against hers, and the world fades into a blur. 

Naomi pushes forward just as Camina rises up, and they fall back onto the bed, Camina’s hand in Naomi’s hair, Naomi’s fingers gripping Camina’s shirt. They kiss in a chaos of tangled limbs, until Camina is lying on top of Naomi, hip to hip and chest to chest. 

“This okay?” Camina murmurs. 

Naomi nods, shakily. “Yeah. How’s your lip?” 

Camina shifts her shoulders in a shrug, her fingers reaching to brush the area in question. The cut isn’t nearly as bad as it looked while it was still bleeding, but her lip is still swollen. “Eh,” she concludes, already bending down again. “I’ll live.” 

Camina melts against Naomi’s body when she kisses her. Her hand slides up Naomi’s waist, coming to rest just underneath her breast. Goosebumps break out on Naomi’s skin at the touch. Not to be outdone, she slips her hand into Camina’s back jean pocket, grabbing her ass and pulling her hips tight against her own. Camina’s gasp in her ear is sweeter than any music she’s ever heard.

“Did you really get yourself off the other night?” Naomi asks once they break off the kiss. 

Camina’s grin turns feral again. “Sure did. Thought of you the whole time.” 

Naomi tilts her head to whisper in Camina’s ear. “Then show me. Show me how you thought of me.” 

Camina lets out a short laugh of disbelief, and for a moment, Naomi worries that Camina will refuse. But then Camina rolls over onto her back, locks eyes with Naomi, and, with aching slowness, begins to pull up her t-shirt. “You want to watch, you watch.” 

She leaves the shirt bunched just below her collarbone, revealing her bra (black, this time) and the tops of her breasts. Naomi watches, hypnotised, as Camina’s fingers travel down over the firm muscles of her stomach. Her breath catches and her pelvis dips when she reaches the waistband of her jeans, and Naomi can’t help the groan that escapes her lips when Camina undoes the button and slides down the zip. 

Naomi looks down and snorts with surprise. “Seriously? Pink knickers?” 

Camina’s eyes gleam wickedly. “What can I say? I like to fuck with people before I fuck them.” With no further ceremony or warning, Camina slips her hand into her neon pink underwear.

What follows is, frankly, the hottest thing Naomi has ever seen. 

Camina rocks and rolls her hips against her hand, her body arching against the pale motel sheets. She flicks her fingers and her lips part on a moan, her thighs clenching and unclenching in turns. The already warm air of the motel room has become muggy and thick, causing beads of sweat to glisten between her breasts. 

Naomi lies still through all of this, longing to touch yet frozen in place. Her own panties already feel damp, her clothes too tight and rough. Camina throws her head back on the sheets, mouth open in a ragged cry, and Naomi can’t hold back any longer. She shifts across the bed and shoves Camina’s bra cup aside, desperate to taste her skin. 

She isn’t sure if Camina is already on the verge of coming or if Naomi’s mouth on her is enough to push her over the edge, but in a sudden burst she thrashes beneath Naomi’s attentions, shuddering her release. 

After a moment, Naomi looks up to meet Camina’s face. Her chest is still rising and falling rapidly and her eyes are glassy. The overhead lamp gives just enough light to show the deep flush across her skin. 

“You did that on your own, huh?” Naomi smirks. 

Camina’s lips quirk. “Was better with you here.” 

Naomi rewards her with a long, slow kiss. Camina’s arms wrap around her, holding her close until she can feel the soft pulse of Camina’s heart against her chest. She brings her hand up to touch Camina’s face and the gentle burn of the kiss fans into a flame, a flame that sets her body blazing when Camina reaches down and cups her through her jeans. 

“Would you like,” Camina purrs, “to feel it for yourself?” 

“God, yes.” 

Camina’s gaze is as intense as ever as she pulls away to sit up on her knees, and Naomi can’t help the little sigh at the loss of contact. That regret is instantly blown away when Camina strips off her shirt and bra, leaving her upper body completely bare. She’s still wearing her jeans and combat boots, the end of her braid just brushing her nipple, and all Naomi can do is stare. 

“Well?” Camina waves in the direction of Naomi’s hips. “You going to look at me all night or are you going to get those pants off?” 

“Oh. Right.” Fingers shaking, Naomi undoes her jeans and shoves them down her legs, trying not to get them tangled around her foot. She fumbles with the buttons on her shirt and is about to peel it off her shoulders when Camina stills her hands. 

“Bra off, but keep this on,” she breathes, playing with the hem of the flannelette. “It looks good on you.” 

Aching with want, Naomi does as Camina asks. In moments, she’s naked except for her unbuttoned shirt. 

Camina looks her up and down as if she could devour her on the spot. Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. “Gorgeous.” 

She leans over Naomi and places one arm on either side of her head. “Still okay?” 

Naomi nods, too overwhelmed to do anything but moan when Camina draws her shirt apart and runs her mouth over her breasts. 

She’s so focused on the feel of Camina’s lips and teeth around her nipple that it’s almost a surprise when Camina reaches between them to brush her clit. “Oh, fuck!” she yelps, hips jerking up in a lightning shock of pleasure. 

“Easy.” Camina presses a soothing kiss to her throat. “Just enjoy the ride.” 

Camina sure knows how to make good on her word.

Naomi loses track of time, loses track of anything other than Camina’s mouth on her tits and her fingers inside her cunt. She’s vaguely aware of crying out Camina’s name as she comes, of Camina’s lips crashing down on hers once more as wave after wave shudders through her body. 

When Naomi regains her sense of the world, Camina is trailing her blunt fingernails over Naomi’s stomach and looking annoyingly pleased with herself. “Have fun?” 

Naomi rolls her eyes even as she grins back at Camina. Her best friend, and now, lover. She holds out her arms. “C’mere.” 

Camina stiffens, the beginnings of a frown creeping across her forehead. A shiver runs through Naomi’s chest that has nothing to do with arousal. Camina isn’t a hugger, never has been, but surely after all this, she wouldn’t just get up and leave? 

As if sensing Naomi’s rising panic, Camina strips off her jeans and boots and pulls the duvet over them both. Naomi reaches for her and a sigh of relief escapes her when Camina turns into her waiting arms. If Camina notices, she doesn’t mention it. They drift into a lazy kiss. 

“Why did it take so long for that to happen?” Naomi says softly. 

Camina’s fingers trail patterns across Naomi’s shoulder blade. “You weren’t ready. I was an asshole. Multiple reasons.” 

Naomi nips Camina’s earlobe and relishes the tiny moan from her lips. “We have a lot of time to make up, then.” 

“I have a strap-on at home,” Camina remarks, as though commenting on the weather. Of course, Camina manages to throw Naomi off guard again. 

“Really?” 

Camina chuckles and draws Naomi closer. “Among other things. Just wait until the tour is over.” 

The thought sends a thrill through Naomi’s body, even though Camina’s comment is a stark reminder that while her own sex life has been on the quiet side these past two years, Camina’s certainly hasn’t been. 

The light catches on Camina’s face when she tilts her head, and Naomi sees a chance to do some teasing of her own. She traces the edge of Camina’s bottom lip. “You’ve got glitter on your chin. And on your nose.” 

“Fucking hell.” Camina sits up and rubs her face furiously, like a cat who got caught in a shower. “Why do you always have to have sparkly tits?” 

Naomi laughs and wraps her arms around Camina from behind. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you, and let you leave like that.” 

“Yeah,” Camina grumbles, still scrubbing traces of Naomi’s body glitter from her chin. “And let everyone know we fucked. Great.” 

_Would that be a bad thing or not,_ Naomi wants to say, but the question gets stuck in her throat. They would have to come to this point eventually. It’s too late to treat this as some casual fuck between friends, to be enjoyed now and then when the mood takes them, that much is obvious. Are they a couple, then? Do they tell people? What about the band? The last time she dated a bandmate it went horribly wrong. She presses the heel of her palm against the dull pounding in her head. 

“So what happens now?” she manages, moving to sit next to Camina on the edge of the bed. 

Camina’s expression instantly turns serious. “That depends on you.” She looks down at her hands, studying her stubby nails in her lap as though she’s never seen them before. “You know how I feel about you.” 

She says it so quickly that the words flow together in a choked jumble. For as long as they have known each other, Camina has kept any softer feelings bottled up tight, and the sound of her admitting to any great affection, messy and inarticulate as it may be, sends Naomi’s heart leaping against her ribs. 

Two years ago, Naomi called Camina from a pay phone at two in the morning after she left Marco with nothing but a backpack and had no place to crash. Camina had shown up ten minutes later on a probably stolen motorbike like some knight in a leather jacket and Naomi slept on her couch for a month. Camina is hot-headed, stubborn and often grumpy. She is also dedicated, passionate and fiercely loyal, and Naomi couldn’t imagine a day without Camina by her side. 

Maybe Camina has always been waiting for Naomi to see it. And now, Naomi finally has. 

She draws Camina to her, and she never realised how close this could feel to home.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this fic was supposed to be quick one shot, but here it is, getting a second chapter. ;)

Dawn announces itself with a watery shaft of sunlight through the curtains and the soft pitter-patter of drizzle hitting the window pane. Naomi scrunches her eyes against the rude wake-up call. Why didn’t she shut those stupid curtains properly last night? 

_Because you were too busy fucking your best friend,_ a voice in her head provides helpfully. 

Oh, right. That. Naomi rolls over, her heart doing a silly little tap dance against her ribs. Camina lies next to her, the movement of the blanket exposing the gentle curve of her still bare back. Everything seems more real in the light of day. 

Camina grunts and snuggles down further into her pillow, tucking the blanket around her naked shoulders. Naomi knows better than to wake her. Wake Camina in a crisis, and she will be alert and ready for action in a second. Wake Camina for anything less, and she will be irritable and monosyllabic for hours. Better to let her awaken by herself, then wait until she’s been fuelled with sufficient caffeine before trying to communicate. Naomi pulls on her panties and shirt, then wanders over to the bathroom. The tiled floor sends a shock of cold through her bare feet. 

It may be the first time she and Camina have slept together, but it isn’t the first time they’ve shared a bed. That was when they were fifteen, and Camina had run away from her latest foster home in the middle of the night. Camina was always being bounced from one foster home to another back then. She’d thrown stones at Naomi’s window like she was in some teen movie, and Naomi had snuck down to let her in to her aunt’s house. They had pulled the blanket over their heads as they lay side by side in Naomi’s narrow bed, talking by torchlight until the early hours. It was the first time they dreamed about forming their own band. Naomi remembers waking up with her nose tucked against Camina’s neck, and Camina’s fingers tangled in her then still long hair. 

But then Naomi had started dating Marco in senior year, and he convinced her to sing for his band and then did a fantastic job of cutting her off from everyone she knew. Meanwhile Camina had dropped out of school to join some politically radical hard rock group who turned out to be, as Camina so eloquently put it, “shitheads with rocks up their sexist asses.” It took over a year before Naomi found her way back to Camina again, and even longer before she found her way back to herself. 

Camina is still asleep when Naomi leaves the bathroom. Her mouth is slightly open and her face is half buried in her pillow, making her snuffle in her sleep. At this moment, she looks almost cute, not that Naomi would ever tell Camina this.

As tempting as it is to crawl back into her side of the bed, the craving for coffee wins out. The closest place selling coffee is the 7-Eleven across the street, so Naomi fishes around for her jeans and boots on the floor. Their clothes are scattered in all directions, a reminder of one hell of a night. A little flush of heat spreads through her belly. She’ll leave that thought for later, when Camina is actually approachable. 

She makes it to the 7-Eleven and back to the motel without incident. She is walking back down the corridor to her room, balancing a cardboard tray with two hot cups in her hand, when a door ahead of her opens and she comes face to face with a very sleepy Bobbie.

“You’re up early,” Bobbie observes, tucking a long tangle of hair behind her ear and yawning. 

“I am?” Naomi hasn’t checked the time, but the sun was reasonably high in the sky when she went outside. The corridor itself has that weird fluorescent lighting where everything looks the same regardless of the time of day. You could walk down the corridor at two pm or two am without noticing a difference. 

Bobbie gives her a look that seems to say ‘ _are you kidding me right now.’_ “It’s eight in the morning. Last time I saw you awake before ten, the van was on fire. And I still had to bang on your door for ages.” 

Naomi raises the tray to deflect from her burning cheeks. “Just getting coffee.” 

Bobbie’s eyes flick from the tray to Naomi and back again. “Two cups. Must be one hell of a hangover.” 

“You have no idea.” 

“Guess you’ll be heading back to bed then.” Bobbie folds her arms and gives Naomi a shit-eating grin. “Tell Camina she owes me a drink for bailing her out of the fight last night.” 

“Um.” Naomi shuffles awkwardly past Bobbie. Why won’t this ugly carpet open up and swallow her whole? 

“Don’t forget band practice!” Bobbie calls out behind her back. “I’ve got something to discuss.” 

Naomi fumbles in her haste to unlock the door to her room and balance the coffee tray at the same time. When the door finally does swing open, Camina is sitting up in the bed, trying fruitlessly to wipe away what is a spectacular case of panda eye. Her lip is still badly swollen, but her nose at least looks fine. “Hey,” she says, voice still rough with sleep, “I was starting to think you’d walked out on me.” 

Naomi bites her lip against the sting. Camina pats the bed beside her as though to soften the impact, but it still lingers. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave a note next time,” Naomi replies hastily, stumbling over the words. 

Camina frowns, then holds out her hand, palm up, like an offering. “No need to apologise. You bring me coffee, that makes you a hero in my eyes.”

Naomi studies the creases of Camina’s palm and passes her the coffee instead. Camina raises an eyebrow but says nothing, lifting her cup to drink. Immediately, she grimaces. 

Naomi quickly takes a sip from her own cup to test it. Hot, bitter liquid burns her tongue. “Jesus Christ. Got nothing on the Roastinante back home.” 

Camina takes another gulp, evidently deciding that bad coffee is better than none at all. “Those boys can make a decent coffee sometimes.” 

Naomi opts to set her cup on the night stand. “A compliment? From you? You’re getting soft, Camina. Soon you’ll be wearing t-shirts in actual colours.” 

In a flash, Camina abandons her coffee and tackles Naomi down onto the bed. “Fuck you. I wore a navy t-shirt once.”

“Oooh, I take it back,” Naomi laughs, even as her breath quickens. “That changes everything-” Whatever she wants to say next is lost when Camina catches her lips in a kiss. Naomi moans as Camina hauls her tight against her still naked chest, her clever fingers working their way under Naomi’s top to palm her breast. Naomi pulls Camina over to cradle her between her legs, and their hips grind into a slow, rocking rhythm. 

Until someone knocks on the door. 

“Naomi?” Julie. Naomi groans with disappointment and Camina rolls away, swearing up a storm under her breath. 

“Be nice,” Naomi mouths in Camina’s direction as she scrambles off the bed to fix her clothes. Camina glares and pulls the blanket up to hide her bare body. When Bobbie first brought Julie along to audition for bass, Camina described her as a ‘spoilt rich girl who will run back to Daddy the moment shit gets tough.’ Julie plays bass like nobody’s business and she has stuck through plenty of rough spots at this point, but Camina is still chilly towards her sometimes. Then again, Camina is chilly towards most people. 

Naomi pulls open the door to find Julie already fully dressed, arms folded across her chest. She might even be tapping her toe. Naomi looks Julie up and down, eyebrow raised. “Overdoing it a bit, aren’t you?”

“Band practice?” Julie insists, craning her neck in the world’s most obvious attempt to look over Naomi’s shoulder. “The new set list for the festival gig? Remember?” 

She did not remember. Naomi leans against the door frame in an equally subtle move to block the room from view. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be down in five.” 

“Should I tell Camina to get her guitar?” 

Bobbie must have put Julie up to this. “Stop digging.”

“Yeah,” Camina shouts from inside the room, “it’s not classy.” 

_Great. Now that cat’s out of the bag._ Julie saunters away with a smirk and Naomi slams the door shut.

“What?” Camina shrugs. “They were going to find out anyway.” Naomi watches Camina slide out of bed and reach for her clothes with regret. “When this tour finishes,” Camina remarks as she steps into her jeans, “we’re staying in my apartment and fucking for like a week.” 

“No eating or sleeping?” Naomi chucks Camina’s t-shirt in her direction. 

“We’ll order pizza.” Camina’s voice is muffled by the shirt she is pulling over her head. “Sleep is for losers. Takes time away from fucking.” 

“Hmm.” Naomi stills Camina’s hands and presses an open-mouthed kiss against Camina’s throat. “You may have the strap-on, but I have my own moves.” 

_“God.”_ Camina clutches Naomi’s back before grabbing her ass. “You don’t even know. Don’t know what you do to me.”

Naomi stalks off, leaves Camina all cranky and frustrated. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

 

* * *

 

When Naomi and Camina arrive at the garage they’ve been using for practices, Bobbie and Julie are already there. Normally Bobbie would be fiddling with her drum kit and Julie would be tuning her bass, but this time they are both perched awkwardly on milk crates. Naomi walks through the open door, Camina following behind, and Julie casts them a nervous glance. 

It’s at that moment Naomi realises Bobbie and Julie are not sitting alone. An older woman dressed in a sumptuous purple suit sits in the only proper chair in the garage, hidden by shadows. When she sees Naomi she stands and steps into the light. 

“Chrisjen Avasarala, Avasarala Records.” Her voice is even raspier than Camina’s. She holds out a hand, and there are dazzling rings on three of her fingers which catch in the sunlight. “I trust you’ve heard of me.” 

Of course Naomi has heard of Chrisjen Avasarala. Who the fuck hasn’t? She just never expected to see her in a rented garage. 

“She approached me after the gig last night,” Bobbie says, shifting around on her milk crate. “I was going to tell you, but then she just showed up here.” 

“Huh,” is all Naomi manages to say in response. She takes Avasarala’s offered hand and the rings are cold against her palm. This day is like some weird fever dream, and it’s only ten in the morning. Behind her, Camina has come to a dead halt. 

Avasarala gives them what is probably meant to be a grandmotherly smile, but Naomi doesn’t believe it for a second. This woman is one of the most powerful figures in an industry where women traditionally have little power at all. There is no point pretending she is not tough as nails. She would have to be. “When I see talent,” Avasarala says, “I pursue it. We’re on the lookout for new acts and I saw you perform last night. You intrigued me.” 

Camina steps up next to Naomi, arms folded across her chest. “Intrigued. So you stalked us.” 

Avasarala doesn’t even blink. “Don’t be so fucking dramatic. It took one phone call to find you. If your drummer didn’t pass on my card, that’s no concern of mine.” 

Bobbie leans her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. “Like I said. Going to tell you.” 

“Why don’t we cut the bullshit,” Avasarala continues. “You want to make it big, you need representation and a contract. You need a manager. You’re an all-female band in a genre dominated by white men. You’re better off being represented by me than any of the male managers out there. You have a unique sound. Grunge with flair. You’ve got the talent; you’ve got the look. The lyrics are there. The production needs polishing to be listenable for mainstream radio.” 

Camina rolls her eyes, but Avasarala has a point, and Naomi knows their sound comes largely from Camina’s guitar. Camina will shred the grunge chords and then break into some ridiculously complex riff just because she can. Ask her about it and she’ll say that playing songs the same way every time is boring. Naomi doesn’t mind, Bobbie and Julie are good enough that they will keep time with whatever Camina is doing, and the crowd loves it. Grunge purists might turn their nose up at it, say it’s showy and retro, but Camina’s absolute refusal to give a shit about what anyone thinks of her is more punk rock than anything a bunch of posers could pull out of their asses.

“Set up a proper meeting,” Naomi concludes. “We’ll read through the contract and discuss our options. Then we decide as a band.”

 

* * *

 

Camina had moved into a new apartment shortly before the Belter Sisters went on the road, so Naomi sees it for the first time when they return to Toronto. The place is surprisingly neat and sparse. The most personal items are a few frames on a bookshelf and music posters on the walls. Nirvana and Bikini Kill, of course, but also Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Pink Floyd’s iconic Dark Side of the Moon cover. Camina slides a CD into the stereo and in moments, bluesy guitar and vocal harmonies drift across the room.

Fleetwood Mac. Naomi smiles at the sound. “I fucking love this album.” Growing up, she and Camina both loved the hard rock stuff, but Naomi was drawn to anything with a female vocalist. Courtney Love, Stevie Nicks, Patti Smith. Marco used to make fun of her for that, called it girly crap. “Not that _Rumours_ is a great model for a relationship between band mates.” 

Camina snorts as she lights a cigarette. She tosses the packet back onto the coffee table with a soft _thunk_ and sits back while she takes a drag. “Don’t know about that. What’s more rock and roll than writing an entire album about how much you’re all literally and figuratively screwing each other?” 

“Do you think this contract with Avasarala could work out?” Naomi is not sure why she takes that moment to ask. Something about rock bands destroying each other, probably. 

The end of Camina’s cigarette glows a deep orange as she inhales. “I think we need to be careful. I’m not one for signing over everything so some suit can tell us what to play and then take our money. But we might have a shot.” 

She pulls out a bottle of red wine from the box next to the couch and sets about pouring it into glasses while Naomi wanders over to the bookcase. There are two photos in cheap frames. One is of a pretty, heartbreakingly young woman under a tree, smiling shyly at the camera. Camina’s mother. She always had that picture, even if she didn’t talk about where that woman was now. The other photo is in a newer frame. Naomi and Camina, joints in hand, Naomi sticking her tongue out, Camina glowering. 

Naomi traces the outline of the frame. “I remember that day. We were what, fifteen?” 

Camina comes over and props her hip against the bookcase as she hands Naomi a glass. “Sixteen. I think that was from Ellen Corey’s birthday party.” 

A memory stirs in Naomi’s mind. “Was that the one where everyone got high and I stripped off my clothes and nearly drowned in the pool?” 

“The same.” 

Naomi winces. “Ah. Not my finest hour.” 

“Nor mine, I had to fish you out of there. But we did get a good picture before all that.” Camina takes the frame in hand and wipes some invisible speck of dust from the glass. “I had such a crush on you back then.”

It should not come as a surprise, but it throws Naomi off balance; the enormity of knowing that the person who understands every side of you, every flaw, every triumph, who pulled you from the water and held you as you cried, is also the person who always loved you, even when you were too messed up to love yourself. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Camina still won’t take her eyes off the picture. “And risk losing you? I didn’t even know if you liked girls back then. The social workers took me away from Mom when I was four and I never knew my father. I didn’t stay in any foster home long enough to care about anyone. You were all I had.” 

The pieces fall into place; Camina sneaking into Naomi’s bedroom on a bitter cold night, Naomi telling Camina about joining Marco’s band, only to have Camina storm off and disappear for days. “And then I left you too,” Naomi says, her voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.” 

Camina looks up sharply. “Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t understand at first, but the night you left Marco, I did. I saw what he did to you. None of it was your fault, you hear me?” 

“Sor-“ 

“Naomi, stop.” Camina cuts her off, grabbing Naomi’s hand and holding it tight. Naomi hadn’t even realised she was trembling until then. 

Camina rubs her thumb over Naomi’s knuckles. “You apologised a lot to Marco, didn’t you?” 

Naomi studies their folded hands. The lump in her throat is solid as stone. “I guess he always made me feel like I had to.” 

Slowly, Camina raises Naomi’s hand to her lips. “It takes time. Don’t rush it. I’ll be here.” 

Behind them, Stevie Nicks sings about regrets and lies and broken promises. Camina scrunches her nose. “I think it’s time to change the song.” 

She bends over the stereo and soon a familiar, raspy voice fills the room. Patti Smith, ‘Because the Night.’ “You asshole,” Naomi laughs, even as the weight lifts from her chest. “You know what this song does to me.” 

Camina comes up behind her and wraps her arms around Naomi’s waist. “Counting on it.” Her lips graze the back of Naomi’s neck. 

Naomi leans in to Camina and they sway slightly to the beat, Camina’s chin tucked over Naomi’s shoulder. Naomi’s eyes flutter closed as the lyrics wash over her. _“Come on now, try and understand, the way I feel when I’m in your hands…_ ” 

She turns in Camina’s arms and rests her forehead against hers, grounding herself in Camina’s warm body. She smells of leather and whiskey and cigarette smoke. Camina’s hands settle on Naomi’s hips, her thumb brushing the bare strip of skin above Naomi’s jeans. Their lips meet on the chords of the refrain. 

_Because the night belongs to us._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're unfamiliar with 'Because the Night' and want some ambience while you read, the song is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_BcivBprM0
> 
> The behind-the-scenes drama that went on while Fleetwood Mac recorded 'Rumours' is the stuff of legend. It's worth reading about if you feel like a rock soap opera.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand I wrote another chapter. This fic is like the protomolecule. :P
> 
> Warnings: references to past abuse.

The next few weeks fly by in a whirlwind. One moment the Belter Sisters are sitting down for a meeting with Avasarala Records, the next they are flying down to LA with a deal to record their first album. When the doors slide open at LAX, even the heavy, gasoline-tinged air seems to fizz like champagne. They get into a cab and Julie waves her arm out of the window as they speed down the highway, yelling a greeting to the city until Bobbie tells her to pull her arm in and stop being an idiot. “You can’t play bass if a truck rips your hand off, Julie.”

Bobbie is right, of course, but Naomi cranks down the window on her side and lets the wind hit her face. Beside her, Camina traces her nail along the seam of Naomi jeans, and Naomi turns to catch her grin. It’s a cliché, but it’s true: right now, they could rule the world. 

Two wrong turns and a massive cab fare later, Bobbie tells the driver to keep the change because “our record label is paying,” and the band walks in to the two bedroom apartment Avasarala Records have rented for them. It’s filled with the kind of impersonal black and white furniture which is typical of these kinds of places and the kitchenette is more of a fridge with a microwave on top of it, but right now, it could be the Ritz. 

Julie immediately throws open the nearest bedroom door and tosses her duffel bag onto one of the two identical beds. “This one’s mine!” 

Camina rolls her eyes and heaves her own bag off the floor. “Naomi and I will take the other one.” 

Bobbie snorts and flops onto the leather couch. “You know, you two really aren’t fooling anyone.” 

Naomi makes a show of fumbling with the strap of her backpack as a way to hide her burning cheeks while she follows Camina to the bedroom. “So,” Naomi says, once they have closed the bedroom door, “which bed do you want?” 

Camina drops her bag unceremoniously into a corner of the room.  “Are we sleeping separately?”

Naomi sits down on the end of one of the beds, a grin playing on her lips. “I know I wasn’t planning on it.” She leans back on her hands and looks towards the window. Mostly the view is just of the neighbouring apartment block, but a tiny sliver of horizon peeks out the side, with the vague, distant outline of a palm tree. “Did you ever think we’d end up here?” 

Camina shrugs, rummaging through her bag and chucking a pile of clothes onto the opposite bed. “I always thought you would.” 

She says it so casually, as though it were a matter of course, and Naomi’s throat tightens at Camina’s unyielding belief in her. She holds out her hands and draws Camina to her until their legs touch, then draws Camina’s t-shirt up to press a kiss against her stomach.

Camina sighs, scraping her fingers over the shaved side of Naomi’s scalp. Slowly, so slowly, Naomi coaxes her down onto the bed beside her. “Lie down,” she whispers, “I’ve got this.” 

A flush creeps along the sharp blades of Camina’s cheeks and her eyes are a deep, wet black. She sits up long enough to remove her shirt and bra, and Naomi takes a moment to drink in the sight. Something about Camina being naked from the waist up, still in her tight jeans, is unbearably hot. She looks up with a hint of a challenge in her gaze, and she knows. Knows how damn good she looks. How much Naomi aches to touch her body. How good she can make Naomi feel, and she will, whenever Naomi wishes it. 

But right now, Naomi wants to turn the tide. 

She starts off slow, feathering kisses down Camina’s throat, feeling the soft rhythm of her pulse. She continues downward, along her collarbones, over the curve of her left breast, until finally, her lips settle on the nipple. Camina twitches, her hand clutching Naomi’s shoulder, but Naomi will not be hurried. She lifts her head and blows gently on the damp skin, then sucks again until Camina releases a low groan. Satisfied, Naomi moves again, setting her teeth against the sensitive underside of Camina’s breast, then traveling lower, over her skin. 

She pops open the button of Camina’s jeans easily enough, but they are too tight to pull down without Camina raising her hips to help. Once she does, Naomi rewards her, sliding her hand into Camina’s panties and brushing her thumb over her clit.

She watches for every hitch of breath, every rock and grind of Camina’s hips against her hand, every shiver and tremble. Camina can be remarkably silent during sex if she wants to be, but that doesn’t mean Naomi can’t make her give a good show. She lets Camina’s reactions guide her in an unspoken communication, seeking for the exact angle and pressure to make her come undone.

Finally, Camina jerks, a ragged gasp breaking from her lips. “I’m going to…”

“Shh.” Naomi crooks her fingers and presses a soft kiss to Camina’s thigh. “I know.” 

Camina’s whole body shudders as she claps her own hand over her mouth to stifle the cry.

Finally, Camina’s breathing slows and she pulls Naomi into her arms, her smile bleary and sated, and she looks softer, younger, like the girl she was never truly allowed to be. A warm, wild happiness floods Naomi’s chest and spreads through her whole body. A happiness which only grows when Camina kisses her.

A loud knock tears through the dreamy, post-sex haze, followed by Bobbie’s voice. “I found a pizza menu, stop whatever it is you’re doing if you want a say in the toppings.” 

“Ugh.” Camina nuzzles Naomi’s neck. “And here I wanted to return the favour.” 

The thought is tempting, but the grumble in Naomi’s stomach settles the matter. “Later,” she says, giving Camina’s ass a quick squeeze. “I’m holding you to that.” 

After a brief argument between Julie and Bobbie on the virtues of pineapple on pizza, the dinner is ordered and the evening ends with Julie, Naomi and Camina on the couch while Bobbie sits against their legs on the floor with a bowl of popcorn in her lap which Julie and Naomi keep raiding. Camina cracks open some beers for them all and Naomi finds a rerun of _X-Men: The Animated Series_ on the old TV. The pizza, when it arrives, is hot and greasy with just the right amount of cheese. Naomi settles against Camina’s side, hesitates, and then rests her head on Camina’s shoulder.

It’s not like she and Camina are hiding their relationship. Camina as much as announced it to Julie on that first morning. But a visible, open sign of affection feels like another step. 

Camina stiffens, her eyes fixed straight ahead at the brightly coloured cartoon characters punching each other on the screen. The minutes tick by; two, maybe three. Then Camina tilts her chin and presses her lips to Naomi’s temple. 

A simple gesture, insignificant really, and right now, it means everything. Naomi knows she is smiling stupidly, but the light in her heart is echoed in Camina’s eyes and she can’t help it, she has to kiss her. 

“About time you two stopped being coy about things,” Bobbie says with a yawn, throwing a puff of popcorn at them. Camina tosses the popcorn back with scarily accurate aim, then drapes her arm around Naomi’s shoulders.

It might be one of the best nights of her life.

 

* * *

 

Naomi’s days leading up to their first recording session are spent writing songs and refining instrumentation, but her nights… her nights belong to Camina. 

It fascinates her, that you could learn so many new things about a person even after knowing them for years. Like the way Camina moans when Naomi kisses that sensitive spot behind her ear, or that the gravel in her voice deepens right before she falls asleep. There’s a scar above Camina’s hip which Naomi has never noticed before. She shivers when Naomi runs her finger over it.

On the morning of their first recording session, Naomi half sits up in bed and Camina’s arm snakes around her waist. “It’s too early,” Camina mumbles, muffled by her pillow. Her loose black hair pools beside her face. “Stay here.” 

“We’re recording today; I want to practice.”

Camina growls, pulling Naomi back down. “Later.”

_“Camina.”_

Her face is still buried in her pillow. “Fine. Half an hour, then we practice.” 

“Thanks.” Naomi gives her a peck on the cheek and slides back down under the covers. Camina’s arm settles over Naomi’s hip, and Naomi smiles when she feels Camina press against her back. So much for Camina not being into cuddles. The smile does not fade as she drifts into a doze. 

Then the alarm on the bedside table starts to blast, and it’s the worst fucking sound in the world. 

“Okay,” Naomi groans, rubbing her eyes. “Let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

Their first two recording sessions at the studio in Avasarala Records go pretty well. They record ‘Urban Barbie Doll;’ one of Naomi’s songs which always gets a good response from the audience, and a newer song called ‘Meet You at Midnight,’ which is slower but has what Avasarala terms “lyrical complexity.” It’s during the third session that things start to come unstuck. 

Avasarala cuts in from the producer’s booth while Camina is recording her guitar. “Try to soften the riff,” Avasarala says, as if it were nothing. “It’s overwhelming the melody.” 

The effect is an instant dead silence. Bobbie looks up from nursing her mug of coffee. Julie drops her magazine. Naomi massages her temples. You don’t tell Camina Drummer how to play guitar. You just don’t. 

Camina rips off her headphones, puts down her guitar and stalks out of the booth. “You think my riff is too rough?” 

Avasarala barely looks up from her notes. “Yes. And while we’re at it, turn down the bass. This song has single potential if we make it radio friendly.”

“Of course,” Camina says. Her voice has dropped an octave, deep, dangerous and dripping with sarcasm. “Being radio friendly should always be our main concern.” 

Avasarala sits back in her chair, looking almost amused. “It is if you want to be played on anything bigger than a local indie station.” 

Naomi can see Camina’s jaw tense, and her palms start to sweat at the sight. The Belter Sisters do not have the security of success to see them through a full scale Hurricane Camina. Naomi tries to catch her eye, sending frantic mental signals. _Calm down. Don’t screw this up for us._

Unfortunately, ESP only exists in science fiction. Camina sneers. “If this was a male band, would you ask them to soften their sound?” 

Avasarala’s smile becomes sickly sweet, and it is horrifying. “I would ask them to follow my advice and be professional, which is what I am asking of you.” 

Camina and Avasarala stare each other down as Naomi’s eyes flick from one to the other. For a moment she hopes Camina will back down, and then Julie chimes in from her perch in the corner. “I don’t mind tuning down the bass.” 

Camina shoots her a glare so sharp, it’s a wonder Julie doesn’t fall down dead on the spot. “Of course _you_ don’t.” 

Julie jumps up from her seat, and Naomi’s heart sinks. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Julie snaps. 

Camina’s gaze is pure disdain. “You know.” 

Julie sticks her hands in her pockets, chin raised in defiance. “No, I don’t. You’re always on my back, and it pisses me off. I’m working my ass off as much as anyone. Just because I didn’t grow up the way you did--” 

“I think the two of you need to stand down before one of you says something she will regret,” Avasarala interjects smoothly. 

Bobbie, who has been watching the argument unfold as carefully as Naomi, gets up from the couch and throws her arm around Julie’s shoulders. “C’mon, Jules. Let’s get a coffee.” She leads Julie out to the break room and Naomi allows herself a small sigh of relief. At least that’s one crisis averted. 

The other, bigger crisis is still ready to blow. Camina’s attention is now back on Avasarala, and Naomi can practically feel the anger vibrating from her taut body. “Camina,” she says quietly, fighting to keep her voice calm. “We could at least try a different sound.” 

Camina turns to Naomi, and her face is livid. When she speaks, her voice is deceptively quiet. “Fuck this.” 

Without another word, she grabs her leather jacket and storms out of the room. Naomi jumps at the sound of the heavy studio door slamming shut. 

“Oh, great,” Bobbie says, sticking her head in. “Can I actually play my drums now?”

 

* * *

 

Naomi doesn’t try to follow Camina. Even if she wanted to, there would not be any point. Camina’s way of dealing with things has always involved going away for hours to do god knows what. Once she disappeared for almost two days and Naomi was about to call the cops when Camina showed up on her doorstep with a black eye and bloody knuckles, reeking of cheap booze. Naomi tried to ask, but Camina never spoke about it. 

Bobbie records her drum tracks and Julie does another take of the bass line. Avasarala does not give any indication of her thoughts on Camina’s outburst. After a few hours, Avasarala tells them to call it a day and sweeps out of the studio with a rustle of silk. 

Naomi, Bobbie and Julie return to the apartment in uncomfortable silence. Julie is still miffed about Camina and Bobbie isn’t one for small talk. Naomi leaves them in the kitchen and locks the bedroom door behind her. The bed sags under her weight and time drifts away while she studies the peeling paint on the ceiling. 

A loud knock on the door shocks Naomi to her senses and she sits up, heart pounding. “Hey,” Bobbie’s voice comes through the door. “Camina’s here. She wants to talk to you.” A pause. “She’s sober.” 

Naomi bites down hard on her lip. “Let her in.” 

The door opens and Camina steps into the room. Her rage has cooled to a low simmer, but Naomi can still read the lines of it in the firm set of her jaw, the sharp points of her shoulders, the stiffness in her back. Marco used to carry his anger in his voice and in his fists. It became second nature to look out for the signs, that bluntness which would signal some sort of punishment for her transgressions. Camina’s anger is all hard angles and jagged edges. A familiar sickness curls about itself in Naomi’s stomach, a sickness which warns her that she could cut herself on those edges, if she got too close. 

Camina leans her back against the wall, arms folded across her chest. “Well? Am I fired?” 

Naomi watches her warily, alert to Camina’s every micro-expression, every shift in her body. “No. Lucky for you, Avasarala says she’s used to musicians walking out in a huff.” 

Camina’s lip curls. “Yeah, I bet she gets that a lot.” 

Naomi’s temper flares, drowning out the sick feeling in her gut, and she grabs on to the anger like a lifeline, channelling her nerves into her clenched fingers. “Jesus Christ, Camina, would you stop?” 

“This is pop crap is not who we are!” Camina snarls. 

“And we could have shown her during the recording session that it wouldn’t work,” Naomi snaps back. “Let the sound speak for itself. But god forbid you think ahead when you do anything.” 

Camina’s mouth is a firm, pinched line. “We’re supposed to back each other up on this.” 

And there it is, the heart of the matter. That look Camina gave her at the very hint that Naomi might disagree. “So I can’t have an opinion of my own now, is that it? Having each other’s backs means I just agree with everything you say?” 

She balls her fists, ready for the fight, her whole body tensing for the blow. But Camina does not yell. She does not rave or come at Naomi with her arm swinging. Her arms tighten across her chest and her gaze drops to the floor. Camina doesn’t look angry. She looks hurt. 

“Is that what you think of me?” she says, and Naomi has never heard that crack in Camina’s voice before. A casual observer would never have noticed it, but Naomi does, because Camina was her best friend long before she became her girlfriend. 

Naomi hates that the fear made her forget that. 

“No,” she murmurs. Then, because the truth still grips her chest, “I don’t know.” 

Camina does not move from the wall. “Maybe I should go, then. If you don’t trust me.” 

“I do trust you.” She forces herself to say it, to choose every word with care. “More than anyone. But you scared me today. I need you to understand that.” 

“I’m sorry.” It’s barely eight o’clock and Camina’s voice is midnight-raw. “I don’t want to remind you of him.” 

Naomi swallows before she reaches out her hand. “Come over here.”

Camina pushes off from the wall and takes Naomi’s hand with uncharacteristic gentleness. Naomi grounds herself in every crease and callus of Camina’s fingers. “I love you, I think.” Her throat feels like sandpaper. “Maybe I always have. But if we want this to work, we have to talk to each other about these things. Even if it’s hard for both of us.” 

Camina stays standing by Naomi’s side, watching her intently. “And do you want this to work?” 

Naomi raises her head until she can see Camina’s face. “More than anything.” 

There is a slight tremor in Camina’s hand as she slowly sits down next to Naomi on the bed, her chin lowered so Naomi can’t quite see her eyes. “I love you too.” 

Naomi cups Camina’s cheek and presses her lips to hers. Soft. Almost invisible. “I’m not going to leave just because I disagree with you on something.” 

Camina’s body is still stiff with tension, but she shifts closer until their knees finally touch. “Guess I don’t trust easy.” 

That might be the understatement of the century, but Naomi knows better than to point it out now. She kisses Camina again instead. “We can work on it together.” 

Camina presses her lips together and Naomi can see the vein twitch from her clenched jaw. When she speaks, it’s as though she is forcing out every word. “When I was thirteen, there was this other girl at the same foster home I was staying at. Sara. She was maybe seven. She was Ojibwe, like me, but I never really spoke to her. She screamed, wet the bed, tantrums, all that stuff. The foster parents called the social worker to come get her, said she was too much to deal with. I think If I had said something to her, she might not have felt so alone.” She picks at a loose thread on her jeans. “I never told anyone about that.” 

It’s the most Camina has ever said about her time in foster care. 

Honesty such as this deserves something in return. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ballet dancer. We didn’t have much money, but Mum used to take me to these free classes at the city hall where the parents could have tea while the kids dance around. After she died, I couldn’t watch ballet again, let alone dance it.” 

Camina leans in and her lips brush against Naomi’s cheek. “You didn’t tell me that.” 

Naomi turns her chin to meet Camina’s kiss. “There. I think we’re making a start.”

 

 


End file.
